The Power to Live

by Thomas Porter

  "What the...!" Napolita, finding herself momentarily abandoned, cried in alarm. But she followed closely behind.

  "Get in! Get in!" Lozen said as she pulled the heavy door closed behind her.

  Napolita pulled the door back open and dived head first across Lozen's lap. She pulled herself onto the passenger seat, hitting the gear shifter with her right knee as she did so. Lozen examined it and, with one hand pushing the silver release button and the other hand pulling it downward, she yanked it toward "D". It refused to budge. She pulled again, harder.

  "Go! Go!" Napolita urged loudly as she straightened herself into a sitting position.

  Lozen pulled again, with as much strength as she could conjure, but the shifter did not relinquish its position on "P".

  "Push the brake!" Napolita said.

  Lozen looked toward her feet, found the brake pedal, and stomped on it violently with her left foot. Again she pulled the gear shifter and it obeyed. She stopped on "D" and the powerful engine pulled against the brake. She straightened in the seat, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, and moved her foot from the brake to the gas. Both girls watched the crowd around the bus as the car rolled out of the paved bus area and onto the street.

  The father's head was inside the cargo well, loading the suitcase, and his daughter was inside the bus. Neither saw the car silently but quickly roll away.

  Chapter 21

  A couple hours after figuring out how to use the Mercedes' GPS and cruise control, Lozen pulled onto the gravelly shoulder of I-80 in Wyoming. Napolita stepped out near the bones of an animal, dried hollow and scattered over the ground.

  "Can you drive? I'm really, really tired," Lozen said, resting her forehead on the steering wheel.

  "I figured you'd want me to drive. You can sleep in the back."

  Lozen pulled herself into the back and stretched out. There was a spiral notebook in her way, with “CHEM LAB” written in block letters on the front, but she pushed it to the floor.

  Napolita walked into the scrub grass along the shoulder and tentatively moved the animal's skull with the toe of her right shoe, then walked around the front of the car, sat in the driver's seat, shut the door, and turned to her right.

  "You okay?"

  If Lozen heard her, she didn't say. She may have been sleeping already. Napolita pressed the brake, pulled the shifter into "D", and set off.

  “I'm tired too, Lozen,” Napolita said to herself as the car pulled onto the pavement and accelerated.

  ~ - ~ - ~

  Lozen was sleeping. Dreaming.

  Now they're laughing. Why would they laugh? Elizabeth, don't scream! "Don't put that gun against Papi's head!"

  Elizabeth, what are they doing to our father?

  "I'll take you to the bank tomorrow and you can have everything. All my money."

  Papi, don't give those men your money! Elizabeth, can't you help him?

  "We are taking more than your money, senor, or we will take your life. Your choice."

  Elizabeth, why are you screaming?

  "Let go of my arm you bastard!"

  Elizabeth, are they hurting your arm?

  That clicking is so loud. Loud! I can see it outside my window. Click! Click! Click! It's making the mushroom cloud move.

  "You want me to put bullets in this gun, senor? It will make more than a click, you know."

  Why is that funny? Why are they laughing again?

  "No. Okay. Okay."

  Okay? What is okay, papi?

  Chapter 22

  Marcos navigated his way off the plane and onto the airport train that led to the Denver airport baggage claim. He found his baggage claim carousel after several minutes. As he stood along the edge of the moving belt, he felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades.

  "What's your damn problem, MacGroghan," he said to the 6'2” man wearing a tight-fitting, perfectly white T-shirt over his muscular upper body.

  "Where's my product?"

  "You really want to talk about it here?" Marcos asked, lowering his voice despite his desire to yell at this guy and kick him in the knee.

  "You heard what I told you last night, right? After Chase called me?" O'Groghan said. "$50K for the pretty one with the weird name, $10K and a kilo for the scarred up one, and my Bugatti for the other nice one. That was the deal. And that's O'Groghan, boy-0. Don't make that mistake again."

  "What did Chase tell you?" Marcos asked.

  "Same as he told you, I hope. I don't care if he had an accident. One scarred up girl was not the deal."

  "You can still flip her, right? I don't know where the other two are but they're out of my control."

  O'Groghan jabbed his middle finger into Marcos' sternum, who recoiled in pain. It felt to Marcos like he was stabbed with a 1/2” dowel. "Get them," he said.

  Marcos, whose right foot stepped back to catch his balance, said, "Forget my bag. We can't talk here. Come on." He turned away from O'Groghan and walked past three baggage claim belts and the hundreds of people clustered around them. Past the last one, on the right, was the bathroom and Marcos went in it. O'Groghan followed closely behind. When the two men were in front of the sinks, O'Groghan grabbed Marcos' neck from behind with a large, rough, battleship gray hand. The fingers wrapped around Marcos' pencil neck and pressed his trachea to the snapping point. Marcos tried to spin around but he was immobilized. When O'Groghan released his grip, Marcos fought hard to keep his face from contorting in pain. He lost the battle. His right hand momentarily rubbed his Adam's apple but he forced it back to his side and turned to face his tormenter.

  "Come to think of it, I don't even have delivery of scar face yet," O'Groghan said through clamped teeth.

  "Chase is driving here, right?" Marcos said, hitching his pants up on his bony frame and sticking his chin out in an exaggerated gesture that struck O'Groghan as funny. In a blur, O'Groghan's right hand slapped Marcos' chin, who stumbled backward two steps before catching himself.

  Marcos grinded his teeth, to see if anything was broken, and recovered all the ground he had relinquished after the slap. "Look, MacGroghan, you give me $400 large for Samantha and we'll call it even. But I'm a nice guy. I won't collect until after Chase delivers her."

  "'Forty large,' huh? You learn that watching TV?" O'Groghan's mouth opened, his head tilted back, and he released a loud, genuine laugh that caught Marcos more off guard than the slap on his chin, the vise around his neck and the dowel of a finger in his back and chest. Lines formed on Marcos' forehead and his eyebrows merged together in confusion. He didn't know how to respond to this startling development.

  As O'Groghan laughed and Marcos stared, a man in his 40s wearing a suit and pulling a leather rolling suitcase walked in the bathroom.

  "Get out, boy-o, if you know what's good for you."

  The man stopped but didn't retreat. His face betrayed the debate taking place inside his head, trying to make sense of what he just encountered in the Denver airport baggage claim bathroom. A thin guy in a gray, too-large sweatshirt facing a thick-chested guy with stubble covering his scalp and laughing loudly. I think he just threatened me, the man thought to himself, although the words didn't match the laugh.

  "Get out."

  The sudden cessation of the laugh and the coldness of the curt message triggered the man's flight instinct. He backed up quickly, without looking, pushing the suitcase backwards until he was gone.

  Whatever relief Marcos felt when the man walked into their presence was crushed by O'Groghan's hand around his neck again. Marcos felt his feet lifted from the floor and his body being carried into a stall, although he perceived this as if experiencing an out-of-body event. From above, he looked down on his body as it was thrown against the back wall. He watched the large, stubble-haired man lift him effortlessly by the neck again, pull his belt off, wrap it around his neck and loop it over the coat hook on the stall door. Marcos watched from above as the man ripped t
he toilet seat off with one hand and hung it around his neck (my neck!), then pull his pants down to his ankles as they dangled a foot off the floor. Marcos then watched a brilliantly bright white light approach him from above. The last thing he heard, just before he entered the light, was, "That's O'Groghan, boy-o. Don't make that mistake again "

  Chapter 23

  Elizabeth collected her things and exited the bus. Denver. She entered the station and asked someone in a nondescript uniform where she could get a taxi.

  "Outside those doors, over by the street," the man told her, pointing out the door she just entered.

  On her way out, she met her travelling companion, the woman who sat next to her.

  "Would you like your sweater back? I forgot I had it," Elizabeth asked her in Spanish.

  "Oh, no. You keep it."

  "It's much warmer now. Really. Sure you don't need it back?"

  "No. You keep it. It might get cold again, you know."

  "Thank you very much. That's very kind."

  "It's nothing."

  If Lozen and Napolita were sold to Groghan, or MacGroghan or whatever his name is, they wouldn't last long, she thought. On several occasions through the walls and pipes of The Taurus, she heard Marcos and the others telling stories of his legendary brutality. If Samantha were going to work for him, then maybe she'll get more than she bargained for, Elizabeth thought. But if Lozen and Napolita were sold to him, they were in immediate danger. She would start her search there first.

  Elizabeth saw two taxis parked at the curb. She walked to the first one and asked the driver, who was leaning against the back, "Do you know where Elk View Drive is?"

  "I can find it," he said without looking up. He turned around, opened the trunk, and reached for Elizabeth's purse. She held it with both arms against her chest, the heavy, angular weight of the revolver pressed against her sternum giving her comfort.

  "No. Do you now where it is?"

  "In Denver, right?"

  "Yes, in Denver. Of course."

  "Hold on a minute," he said and went to the front of the taxi. He sat in the driver's seat, door still open, and tapped on his GPS.

  "Elk View Drive? It's right here. Not in Denver, though. Outside a ways. I can take you there but it's going to be $50. You have it?"

  "Yes, I have it."

  "Okay, show me and I'll take you."

  Elizabeth, still holding her purse against her chest, relaxed her right hand and reached in. Keeping her hand inside the purse, she pulled a $100 bill from her stack of bills, then pulled it out and showed it to the driver. "Can you make change?" she asked him, looking intently into his eyes.

  "Sure, I can make change. Get in."

  "Show me you can make change," Elizabeth said, standing now with her feet about shoulder width apart and not releasing his eyes from her stare.

  "Okay, okay," the driver said and smiled at her. He pulled a crumpled mass of bills from his right pants pocket and managed to extract two $20s and a $10 from the disorganized ball of paper. He held them up for her to see with his left hand while stuffing whatever was left back into his pocket. "Deal?" the driver asked, still smiling, and opened the back door for her.

  Elizabeth remained silent but sat down.

  As they drove away, Elizabeth leaned forward and asked, "Can you just drop me at the end of the street?"

  "Just at the end? Any end in particular," he asked, spinning and moving the steering wheel while keeping one eye on the road and the other in the rear view mirror, which he had tilted so he could see her.

  "How long is it? Elk View Drive?"

  "I don't think too long. Maybe half a mile. You want me to drive you from one end to the other so you can see?"

  "Yes, thank you," she said and leaned back in the seat, thankful she kept the sweater, if just for an extra layer of clothing between herself and the taxi driver.

  For the next 15 minutes the driver chattered to himself, cursed other drivers, played with the radio, and glanced into the rear view mirror at his passenger. Elizabeth stared out her window and did her best to ignore him. The taxi maneuvered through the city streets, then drove for several miles on the westbound side of Santa Fe Boulevard, a main thoroughfare with a grassy median. The taxi exited after a billboard which read "Evergreen Estates. From the $500s." The red rocks of the foothills rose in the distance, framing the snow-capped mountains. The taxi turned into Evergreen Estates, took two more turns on the wide, paved residential streets, then the driver announced, "This is it. Elk View. Still want me to drive it?"

  "Okay. Then let me out on the other end."

  "You got it," he said, turning into Elk View but eyeing Elizabeth in the mirror. She ignored him. As he drove, she looked intently at each house, on each side of the street, as if trying to see into them. The street was wide, lined with new curbs, and very quiet. Evergreen Estates was self-enclosed with no through street and anyone who saw the taxi cruising its length had already questioned its presence and made a mental note of it and the beautiful young woman in the back seat studying them. She pulled herself onto each side of the car so she could put her face against each window, left and right. She didn't hear voices coming from them but she tried to. She tried to memorize each one, how many front windows, the pattern of the siding, the cars in the driveway, the landscaping around the mailboxes, the types of shrubbery along the front. She tried to imagine what each might sound like were it a musical instrument, what each one would say if it could talk. An older woman on her knees at a mailbox, pulling weeds, stared at them openly as they drove by.

  At the end of the street, the driver stopped the taxi and said into the mirror, "This is it."

  "Can you drive to the other end? But slower?"

  "Okay. Fifty dollars."

  "To drive to the other end?"

  "No. This ride was $50. Remember?"

  "Oh, yes. You need your money," she said and held the $100 bill in front of her. When he reached for it, over his shoulder, she pulled it back.

  "Change?"

  The driver tossed the three bills he had shown her at the bus station into the back seat. They landed next to her. She extended her arm and the driver took the $100 as he pulled the taxi into a U-turn.

  As he drove slowly back, Elizabeth examined the curtains in each window, trying to discern some meaning from them. On most houses, the curtains were open, or partially open but on about one third of the houses, all the curtains were pulled closed. About half those houses with closed curtains had unkempt lawns and weeds overgrowing the mulch and rocks around its mailbox. She debated whether the type of person willing to trade her sister for a Bugatti would not bother pulling weeds and mowing the lawn, or whether he would hire professional landscapers in order to avoid drawing attention.

  And whether spending time on this street at all was a waste of time.

  When the taxi stopped again, Elizabeth disembarked without a word to the driver.

  "Best of luck to you sister," he said out his open window as he pulled away from the curb. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

  The late afternoon sun was high but still shone directly on the red foothills and white capped high peaks. Elizabeth, for the first time, smiled at the driver but he didn't see her.

  She walked in the street past a few houses and stopped at a two-story house with stacked stone siding and a low-cut, weed-free lawn. She followed the curve of the walkway with a clean, nearly perfect one-inch gap between the paving stones and grass. She ascended to the cement porch, two steps higher than the walkway, and pressed the doorbell. She heard its rich tone fill the lower part of the house with pleasant notes as she waited. After about a minute, an Indian woman in her 60s or 70s in a silk saree opened the door. She asked Elizabeth, "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am but I'm trying to find someone who lives on this street."

  In a thick accent, she asked, "You are trying to find someone?"

 
"I am. I'm sorry to bother you at home but I think a Mr. Groghan, or a Mr. MacGroghan, lives on your street?"

  "Mr. Groghan? You're trying to find him?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Do you know in what house he lives?"

  "No, but I think he lives someplace on this street. Do you know him?"

  "I don't know anyone by that name. Sorry," the woman told Elizabeth.

  "Okay, but thanks anyway. Sorry to bother you," Elizabeth said and turned to leave.

  "My son gets home maybe by 6 if you want to ask him."

  "Thank you," Elizabeth said over her shoulder.

  She walked back to the street and turned right. She passed the next house but knocked on the front door of two houses on the opposite side. No one was home. After those two she crossed the street again and made her way to the front door of a one-story brick house. She knocked and almost instantly the curtain on the front door was pulled aside and a woman's voice told her through the door, "I thought you people were told not to come around here anymore. No soliciting. Don't you see the sign?"

  For the first time, Elizabeth noticed a 3x5 card in the bottom corner of the window which read in neat letters, "No Soliciting."

  "Do you know someone named Groghan? MacGroghan? I'm just looking for someone."

  "No. Go away," the voice said.

  Elizabeth returned to the street and turned right. Two houses up, the woman still worked at her mailbox. A flat of red and white annuals and a bag of flower bulbs sat nearby.

  "Can I help you, young lady?" she asked as Elizabeth approached.

  "I hope so. I'm looking for someone I think may live on this street. It's very important I find him. I just know his last name. Groghan, or maybe MacGroghan?"

  The woman, with some effort and using the mailbox post as an aid, pulled herself up to a standing position. "Groghan. No, I'm sorry I don't know anyone by that name. Did you try the phone book? Or I can ask my husband to look it up on that google thing but he's not home now. Rodger can find lots of stuff on that thing."

  "Thank you very much but I don't have time now. It's very important I find this person as soon as I can."